Love at First Laugh: Eight Romantic Novellas Filled with Love, Laughter, and Happily Ever After

by Krista Phillips

  “Chelsea? What are you…? What’s wrong?”

  “I need you to come in here!” Her breath hitched in her throat, skin clammy. “I’m stuck.”

  “Can you open this door?”

  “No. Please hurry.” She sucked in deep breaths.

  Within seconds, a clicking sounded from her front door. Yes! Something had told her to give him a copy of her room key the night before. She would never doubt that nudge again.

  “Are you all right?”

  Chelsea heard him standing beside her—bless him—no amusement or ridicule in his voice despite the fact that she was stuck with a dress over her face, her Spanx no doubt in full view. They may have been the most unsexy thing in the world, but at least they were black and covered all the important parts.

  “I’m fine. Just please help me get this thing off. I’m going to be so late.”

  Her skin tingled as his fingers worked gently against her side.

  “Maybe it’s a sign you should just leave me in here. I don’t know why I should even bother presenting to them in the first place.”

  “Don’t say that.” Nick’s voice was soothing. “There it is.” The fabric gave, allowing her a full view of the face just inches from hers as the dress slid into place.

  A warm, strong hand brushed matted hair from her cheek, and for a moment, she allowed herself to look into the deep blue eyes across from her, to swim in their soothing mixture of amusement and conviction. Of hope in her.

  “I’m a fraud,” she whispered. “Why should my planner be on the shelves of every Carter & Fritz store in America?”

  “No, you’re not.” His hands framed her face. One small brush of his thumb along her jaw moved a shudder through her entire body, as if it remembered him. Welcomed him back. “You’re the most authentic person I’ve ever met, Chelsea Scott. You’re actually incapable of being anyone but yourself, and that’s why your planner should be in those stores.”

  She angled her face and parted her lips, closing a fraction more of the space between them. “Is it broken? Is it beyond fixing?” Lowering her voice so he’d know she wasn’t just talking about the dress.

  “No, it’s not.” His eyes never left hers, their blue silvering as they searched hers. As they had so many times. And he moved toward her—

  RIIIIING!

  The shrill sound pierced through Chelsea’s eardrums, tearing them apart as the phone blared next to the bed. She was sure her heart had jumped out of her skin.

  It was her second wake-up call, meant to ensure the past didn’t repeat itself. Yet it had ensured a different past didn’t repeat itself. She picked up the phone, hand shaking, and brought her fingers to her tingling mouth.

  Her lips would have welcomed him back, too—and given him a reason to stay.

  “Anyway.” Nick cleared his throat and stepped toward her, his irises back to Reality Blue as he carefully zipped the dress. “They’re not looking for someone who has it all together.”

  “But Rhonda—”

  “No, but Rhonda.” Nick shook his head. “Listen, I’m sure she’s a very smart woman if you trust her with your company, but she’s wrong if she tells you to be anybody but the person you already are.”

  Chelsea’s cheeks—no, her whole body was on fire.

  “Carter & Fritz is looking for a product that works,” he continued. “Do you think their customers have it all together?”

  Okay, maybe the man had a point. She’d never looked at it like that.

  “They know there’s a huge market out there for planners. Just tell them what you told me about how well this system worked for you, and they’ll love it. They’ll love you.”

  “I will.” Chelsea nodded. She only realized he was holding her hand when he squeezed it, the connection of their palms as natural as their own skin.

  And reality collided with his touch. Nick Pearson was really standing in her hotel room, after all these years. Back in her life like reading a favorite book for the first time again. They’d almost kissed, for goodness’ sake.

  They hadn’t, though. The messy edges of her life had kept it from happening, so she couldn’t let herself believe it had changed anything. How could they possibly reopen their book when they’d been living their own stories for so long?

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  She met his gaze and found an intensity that said he’d go to Antarctica if she asked him to. But she shook her head. “I’ll be okay.” A ride alone would put her focus back where it belonged—on rebuilding her business. Or at least trying.

  After Nick went to his room, Chelsea did damage control on her hair and makeup before the car arrived, her mind racing as she slid into the leather backseat of the luxury sedan with her box of materials.

  You’re actually incapable of being anyone but yourself, and that’s why your planner should be in those stores.

  She whispered Nick’s velvety words until she believed them.

  Clean. Minimalistic. Functional. Bold. Effective. Those were the words Rhonda had drilled into Chelsea’s head as they’d worked through the mission and purpose for her brand and again as they’d prepped for the presentation. All things Chelsea naturally wasn’t and probably would never be, splayed in the notes on her lap.

  But the conviction in Nick’s eyes kept her from tucking and rolling onto the side of the road. If Missy were there, she’d be telling funny stories to keep Chelsea’s mind off of things. Of course, if her team were there, Chelsea wouldn’t be tempted to jump from a moving vehicle in the first place.

  Rhonda had booked a meeting room at a hotel close to the convention center during the only time slot the Carter & Fritz rep had available. Except, when Chelsea arrived, the private room wasn’t clean, with napkins, plates, and crumbs littering the giant oval table in the center of the room. It also wasn’t very private, its glass walls in full view of the main hallway the International Stationery Show was using as a meeting hub. So setting up her promo materials was basically floundering in a giant fishbowl, people gawking as they passed by.

  “Yeah, get a good look at the freak show, kids,” she murmured as a trio of hipsters with convention badges caught her eye and smiled to themselves. They knew the particular brand of pre-pitch torture that was happening in there.

  Chelsea picked up a packet of papers she’d set on a side table. What? The entire back half of the stack wasn’t just damp; the pages were soaked in what looked and smelled like spilled coffee. Cold, brown liquid dripped from the edges. How was she supposed to clean all that up with negative two minutes left until her meeting started?

  She glanced around the room, searching for paper towels or anything, when her gaze caught the whisper of a man rounding a corner out of sight.

  Was that…Paul? He couldn’t be here. Could he? Surely someone on her team would have heard. But the split-second glimpse of the man had the same black hole effect as her former wholesale printing rep. The same disappearing act that had changed everything for the company—and for her.

  “Excuse me, are you Chelsea Scott?”

  She pivoted to face the woman who’d entered the room, so fast that the papers slipped from her hands. “Yes, I am.” Chelsea bent to pick up the coffee-soaked pages. “How can I help you?”

  “Jewel Hargett, senior buyer for Carter & Fritz.”

  A knot of panic tightened in Chelsea’s throat as she straightened and shook the woman’s cold, bony hand. Ms. Hargett’s short hair fell over one eye in a stylish, asymmetrical, probably expensive cut.

  “Bill got stuck in New York because of some storm and won’t be in until later this evening, so this fell on me.” She sank into one of the chairs at the conference table and pulled her phone from her leather briefcase.

  Chelsea dug her nails in her palms. It was William Giertz who knew their background, William Giertz they’d been building rapport with for months to set up this meeting. Rhonda had even found out his favorite breakfast food and ordered a dozen cinnamon rolls. “Yeah.” Her
voice shook. “My team has to come in through Charlotte of all places—”

  “Listen, I don’t have much time, so can we please get on with this?” Ms. Hargett’s eyes shifted from the phone in her maroon-tipped hand to Chelsea’s leg. “That looks awful, by the way. You should probably get that checked out.”

  Chelsea angled her bandaged leg out of sight and set the coffee-soaked papers in front of the senior buyer. “Of course. These papers, they…there was coffee—” No sign of acknowledgement. “Never mind.”

  Her gaze drifted through the glass window against her will to where she’d seen Paul. If he was really here, she’d—

  Focus, Chelsea.

  She launched into a disjointed version of the spiel, placing each planner in the current academic line in front of Ms. Hargett, along with the different yearly formats and the board with swatches of every color and material option for their covers. The demonstration Chelsea gave for each planner was the most abridged she could muster. If that woman got up and left in the middle of everything, she swore she’d lose her ever-loving mind.

  Finally, Chelsea reached the final bullet point of her notes in one piece. “Oh, and the paper we use is virtually bleed-proof, even with a Sharpie—unless you happen to spill coffee all over it.”

  “Okay, that’s great.” Not even a courtesy laugh. Just the clipped cadence of finality. “We’ll be in touch.” Ms. Hargett stood, her face still emotionless, notes untouched on the table in front of her. “Do you mind if I take one of these?” A Regal Raspberry weekly, one of their bestsellers, was in her briefcase before Chelsea could respond.

  “Um, sure. You can take all of those—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Jewel crossed through the door.

  “—and show them to Bill?”

  Slam. The click of the door latch deflated Chelsea’s lungs. There went the future of the company, the reason they’d shelled out big bucks so they could be here in the first place. The way Chelsea saw it, she could laugh, cry, or…she grabbed a cinnamon roll and crawled under the table, her very own sunken ship to shield her floundering from inquisitive eyes.

  Chelsea tore off a chunk of gooey goodness. Jewel Hargett probably only ate things grown in the coldest, darkest places of the earth anyway. They’d done everything right to prepare for this convention, and yet, almost every variable had shifted out of their control. The tornado. The missing buyer. Now the possible reappearance of Paul.

  With one hand, she stuffed the last of the cinnamon roll into her mouth. With the other, she composed a group text to her team. What was she supposed to say?

  The pitch went well. If well means a ten-car fender bender during rush hour.

  Can’t wait to see y’all, but update your resumes just in case.

  No big deal, but I think I just saw the man who conned me and very possibly took ten years off of all our lives.

  “I just thought you should know—”

  Chelsea’s head slammed into the table.

  “Jewel’s really not that frosty once you get to know her.”

  She crawled from beneath the table and swiped at the cinnamon icing she was sure smeared the corners of her mouth. An older gentleman stood in the doorway, amusement brightening his lined face. “I take it you’ve worked with her.” Chelsea straightened her dress. As if wrinkled clothing could do anything to demoralize her more right now.

  He closed the distance between them and extended his hand. “Jack Myers.”

  “I’m Chelsea Scott.” Goo squished between their handshake.

  Mr. Myers lowered himself into a chair and picked up one of her planners. “Well, what do you know?” He ran his finger across her logo. “You’re even lovelier in person than you are on a screen.” His words held more of a grandfatherly affection than a shady sleaze.

  “Thank you.” Chelsea’s mind scrambled through its internal database. “Can I assume you’re in town for the convention? Business or pleasure?” She had nothing on the man.

  “Both.”

  Woof. She’d sort of meant it as a joke, as a token of camaraderie, but the good ol’ boy was right. “I love what I do too, sir.” She sat in a chair across from him.

  “What made you start this business?” Mr. Myers opened another planner and leafed through its pages.

  “Necessity.” Chelsea slid the box of cinnamon rolls across the table. “I was about to flunk out of college and needed a system that would help me keep my head on straight.”

  “Did you ever imagine it would turn into all of this?”

  She shook her head. “It was kind of an accident, really.”

  “And do you have an academic in this year’s line?”

  “Always, sir.” Chelsea pointed to one with an Efficient Emerald cover. “That’s where it all began. Students have jobs and internships and creative endeavors, too. I wouldn’t have made it past my first year without a place to sort out all of that mess.”

  “And now you’re helping all these people have the same place.” Mr. Myers stood and tucked his thumbs under his suspenders. “Do you have a card on you?”

  “I sure do.” Chelsea stood and dug through her bag for the little leather card case her mother had sent before her first job interview. “Thanks for the talk.”

  “Mmhmm. You enjoy your convention, and maybe I’ll see you around.” He twirled the card between two beefy fingers. “And don’t let people like Jewel Hargett tell you what’s what.”

  When Mr. Myers was gone, Chelsea picked up another cinnamon roll and typed his name into the search engine on her phone. A slightly younger headshot splashed on the page. Jack Myers, founder of Myers Distribution.

  Her cinnamon roll tumbled across the table.

  Leading college bookstore distributor worldwide.

  Chapter 6

  “So, what is this distraction you speak of?”

  Nick took a box from Chelsea and set it in the back of the Ford Escape that was literally going to be their escape. “Just a little park I think you’ll like. I know how grumpy you get when you haven’t been out in the sun.” He climbed into the seat next to her and nudged her shoulder.

  “Fair enough.” She elbowed him back.

  “Do you want some coffee?”

  Chelsea took a deep breath. “Oh, no. I’m so full. I had about four cinnamon rolls in that meeting room.”

  Their driver held up the caramel blended coffee Nick had picked up on the way, and Chelsea lunged for it. “Oooh! Is that for me?” But Nick intercepted it.

  “What about the cinnamon rolls?” He held it out of her reach.

  “A girl can change her mind.”

  Nick handed her the cup, laughing. “Meet George. George, this is Scotty.”

  When Chelsea sent the 911 text, he’d immediately ordered a ride, changed into the nicest clothes he’d packed so she wouldn’t feel self-conscious in her dress, and picked her up from the hotel. The idea had popped into his head the moment he found out about Chicago, and now that they had a few hours with nothing to do, there was no other option. Chelsea needed the break. And apparently the caffeine.

  The sun had broken through the clouds, the sky clear as if freshly scrubbed from the rain, but the inside of the SUV was anything but free as Chelsea told him about the meeting.

  “She really commented on your leg?”

  Chelsea coughed. “I told you everyone was going to notice.”

  “And this Myers guy—you think he’s legit?”

  “Yeah, I looked him up. He founded the company in the ‘70s.” She slurped some whipped cream from the end of her straw. “Seems like a really decent guy, but that could be because I met him after the Frost Queen.”

  Nick shifted in the seat, knocking the lid to Chelsea’s box askew with his elbow. The smell of stale coffee assaulted him, coming from the crumpled paper at the top of the box. “What happened here?”

  “Yeah.” Chelsea rolled her eyes. “That awesome part of the story didn’t even make the cut.”

  “Have you told
your staff yet?”

  Chelsea shook her head. “The most important details, yes. Man, I should have had you tell Rhonda for me. I’m pretty sure she’d think you’re too good-looking to kill.”

  “Why?” In one fluid motion, he unfolded Chelsea’s hand and threaded his fingers through hers.

  “Well, I mean, have you looked in a mirror lately?”

  Nick choked. “No, why all this intimidation when it comes to Rhonda?”

  “Because she—I…oh my gosh!” Chelsea let go of him and palmed her window with both hands. “Is that…Wrigley?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Some little park. How’d you know I’ve always wanted to come here?”

  Was she serious? “Have you seen the way you look at a baseball lately?”

  “The Cubbies are on the road this week,” the driver chimed in. “But they do tours and stuff all the time when they’re gone.” He gestured to a group congregated at the entrance. “Looks like they’re about to start one now.”

  Nick paid him the fare plus extra to take Chelsea’s things back to the hotel’s front desk. “C’mon. They’re going in.”

  They walked—though Chelsea technically hobbled—fast and made it as the tail end of the group was passing through the entrance.

  “Wow,” Nick said. “Do you know how much history has happened in this place?”

  “Nick…” Chelsea didn’t seem too concerned about history as they walked past concession stands. “Are we sure this is a tour?”

  The crowd stopped, and a woman in a royal blue polo held up a clipboard until everyone stopped talking. “All of the guests are setting up for a photo op that Shawn and Amber specifically requested, but before we go onto the field, there are some ground rules we need to go over.”

  “Are we crashing a wedding right now?” Chelsea whispered to him.

  Nick motioned for her to turn around. Judging by the woman in the white dress walking toward them, the woman who made the Wrigley Field employee turn from all-business to schmooze, he would say yes. “What do we do?”